


Ten Years Later / The Mutterings Of All Your Fears.

by whoaayellowrock



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: All The Other Characters Apart From Jmart Are Dead, Basically Just Martin Having A Stream Of Consciousness Reflection, Because I Didn't Have Time To Write All Of Their Complex Character Arcs, It's Not In Depth Because This Is A One-Shot, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist - Freeform, Jonny Sims Don't Interact, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Martin Blackwood - Freeform, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Set Ten Years After MAG 200, Short One Shot, The Lonely - Freeform, They Blow Up The Archives And Everything Is Okay, Title Is Partially An Amazing Devil Lyric Because Why Not, sort of hurt comfort, they have a cat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-24 02:54:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30065565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whoaayellowrock/pseuds/whoaayellowrock
Summary: Somehow Jon and Martin survive the destruction of the Archives and rebuild their lives.Jon had been by his side from the start, had seen him sob and scream with sheer fright, had clung to him in despair, had not let go of his hand even as the world contorted and deformed right before their eyes.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood / Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Kudos: 30





	Ten Years Later / The Mutterings Of All Your Fears.

**Author's Note:**

> CW for traumatic nightmares, mention of trauma, major character death, grieving, therapy, a brief mention of blood/scars. 
> 
> First fic so be kind !!!!
> 
> I might develop this oneshot into a full-blown fic because I have a lot of ideas and feelings about this concept that doesn't come through in these paltry 1K words, so stay tuned. 
> 
> I also made a Spotify playlist for songs that inspired this fic or songs that I feel capture the overall mood, so check it out of you're interested in that. https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4WkMfXoLp5REjxHn7w9xYY?si=GzHLmoPGRbuv7rRs8LYqSA
> 
> Come hang out with me on Tumblr - @/eliwantslove or on Instagram - @/eli.alex.hasan.k

A harsh, unnatural chill. Windows frosted and opaque. A swirling, thick carpet of grey fog. Voice echoes when you try to shout. Cold, cold, so horribly cold. So lonely. Lonely? That’s not right, not anymore, you have- 

“JON!”

Martin surfaced from the misty depths, snapping awake with a cry. Books erupting from shelves, a glass of water by the bed. The dulled roar of cars on a nearby road. Abrasively bold dawn birdsong. The feeling of his sheets, sweaty and tangled. And a warm, familiar body lying next to him, ready to drive the monstrous ghosts away- 

He sat bolt upright, couldn’t help the instinctive, electric flash of panic, his brain flooding with memories of kidnappings and comas before the simple reality came back to him. Far from being a hostage of malicious avatars, Jon was away at a conference in Birmingham, though if his regular text messages were anything to go by, the company of Nikola Orisinov was preferable to the company of bored middle-aged librarians herded into an uninspiring meeting room. 

His racing mind slowed ever so slightly, and he pulled himself out of the bed, worriedly noting the slight twinge of pain his joints threw up in protest ( as they were wont to do these days, forty one certainly wasn’t a glamorous age ) and padded across to the window. Pulling back the dark curtains and wiping the condensation off the windowpane revealed the sleepy city sprawled below their second-floor flat; yellow-lit windows dotted around the muted drab landscape as London yawned and hauled itself awake to face another day. The perfect facade gave away nothing of the profound suffering still ingrained in every pore and vein of the metropolis’s inhabitants, the population still tense and waiting for the monsters to slip out from far-off realities, skin dotted with goosebumps and protective hands clasped over loved one’s arms. Tight and fierce. 

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that after everything he and Jon went through to reverse the literal end of the world, the trekking through domains, the heinousness of the Panopticon, the destruction of the Archives, the people...lost, along the way, the wounds never healed. It wasn’t fair that Martin should have to wake up consumed with terror, trembling and quivering, disoriented in a gloom that should have quietly ambled away ten years ago. 

But normally, Jon would be there to guide him back, help him find his balance when the real world slipped out from under his feet, being a solid refuge to find himself in again. Jon had been by his side from the start, had seen him sob and scream with sheer fright, had clung to him in despair, had not let go of his hand even as the world contorted and deformed right before their eyes. 

The two of them were the only survivors of the explosion that had demolished the Archives, crawling out of the rubble bleeding and scraped but undeniably alive, the last men standing. The odds and ends remaining after everyone else was stolen from them. Determined to live their lives, filling their shared flat with leafy plants bought from the Sunday flower market, brewing cups of tea, reading together, all the while clinging to the other so tightly lest they slip under, like sailors adrift on a wide, stormy sea, desperate not to drown. It was no way to live, no way to heal. But it was better than nothing. 

Better to age unglamorously, to sag and wrinkle and turn grey, than to remain a raucous, good-looking young man captured in a framed photo on a living-room mantle forevermore. Better to be known by the 277 bus driver, by your colleagues at work, by your neighbours, than to drop off the face of the Earth and have nobody notice. Better to be scarred and disfigured than ashes scattered in the smouldering debris of the building you tried so hard to escape.

They didn’t have the words to comfort each other, to address the magnitude of all they had been through, so they settled for tight hugs and clasped hands. Their grief stuck in their throat when they tried to express it, and while therapy had helped a little, they had long ago accepted the night terrors as part of their routine. Painful, yes, but another unavoidable part of life. It was the price they paid for making it out. 

Enacting Annabelle’s plan had been the right thing to do, Martin was sure of it. It didn’t help anyone to think of the alternate reality the Entities resided in, so he didn’t. In this universe, at least, life was...not normal, not quite; nobody was quick to forget the horror of the apocalypse, culminating in a global mental health crisis that was showing no signs of slowing down, ten years later - but life went on.

The Earth kept spinning, people kept waking up in the mornings, kept on laughing and crying and loving. A mundane yet beautiful act of resistance that seven billion people were unthinkingly committing. A raw and messy demonstration raging ever since he and Jon had gazed in wonder as the world rebuilt itself in the aftermath of the Archive’s destruction, covered in ash and grime, and decided to live. 

After everything, Martin could scarcely believe Jon and him were still breathing, let alone together and mostly content. Living this life, having ordinary jobs that didn’t routinely put them in immense danger, owning a little black and white cat, watching T.V. curled up on the sofa, felt like an unrehearsed performance of normality missing the key performers. The two of them fumbled and tripped but staggered through alone, making the steps up as they went along. 

And every time Martin fell, he knew he’d fall right into Jon’s arms, maimed and burnt but defiantly strong. He knew they’d keep clumsily dancing until the curtains fell, several years fro today. 

And so he wiped the sleep from his eyes, took a deep breath and walked out of his bedroom. Ready to face the day.


End file.
